The Holmes' Family Meal
by splash1998
Summary: Sherlock, after John's insistence, invites the Holmes' round for dinner at 221B Baker Street. John certainly didn't expect it to turn out like this.


**Never written for this archive before; but I do love a bit of Sherlock now again, so I thought; why not!**

**There is an OC (Sherlock and Mycroft have a younger sister), but apart from that, just a bit of John-age, Sherlock-age, and Mycroft-age. **

**Hope you like!**

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**Summary: Sherlock, after John's insistence, invites the Holmes' round for dinner at 221B Baker Street. John certainly didn't expect it to turn out like this.**

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**The Holmes' Family Meal:**

"John, do I look okay?"

"Yes, Sher-"

Sherlock interrupts him. "Are you sure? Not too smart? They will think something of this dinner, otherwise."

John isn't a hundred percent sure how to answer the question; Sherlock's usual daily attire was a button-up shirt, varying in colour depending on his mood, and some nice suit trousers.

John is now really struggling to decipher whether or not what Sherlock's wearing is too posh or not.

"You're right," Sherlock says, breaking his thoughts, "It is too smart."

John sets down his tea. "I didn't say anything."

"I know, but you were thinking it."

John really has to stop himself from tearing his hair out sometimes.

Turning his blue tawny eyes to meet the grey haze of Sherlock's, he sighs. "How do you know what I was thinking? Do you read minds now, or-"

Interrupted, again. He rarely completes his sentences any more. "No, of course not, John, don't be an idiot. However, I sensed that was what you were going to say."

John takes a sip of his tea, humming. "Okay, Sherlock, it was too smart. Why don't you just wear a pair of jeans and a jumper?"

"What, like you?" Sherlock scoffs with barely hidden disgust. "Then we'll look like the gay couple everyone accuses us of being."

The doctor throws his hands up in the air. "Fine. Whatever. But when they get here and complain about how you look, you'll just bitch about it to me later."

"John, shut up. You sound like my moaning wife."

"I'd be ignoring you right now, if I was your wife, Sherlock."

"Well, you tend to ignore me quite frequently. Does that make you the woman in our metaphorical gay relationship?"

"Metaphorical being the correct word used. I'm not gay. And if I was, I certainly wouldn't be gay with you."

"As you tell everybody. You could secretly be harbouring a crush on somebody. Lestrade? Mycroft? Me? No, not me. You'd probably would have made it clear. You are hopeless when it comes to love and wooing."

"Thanks, Sherlock." John rolls his eyes and huffs in his usual manner when he is talking to Sherlock. "Also, Mycroft? Really? I am not gay, nor am I secretly harbouring a crush on somebody. And definitely not your brother. Gross."

"Dating the British Government is not gross, John. Some might see it as inspiring. Certainly not the easiest job in the world."

"Well, neither's looking after you, so I guess we'd never work out because of our high maintenance jobs." John shifts in his chair. "Now shut up, sit down and wait patiently for them to arrive."

John huffs again at his roommate and turns back to his newspaper and tea - which he was rudely interrupted from when the stupid consulting detective decided to act like a paranoid teenage girl introducing their boyfriend to their parents for the first time.

Maybe John should relay this information to Sherlock; prove that he'd be the woman in their metaphorical gay relationship. He'd probably either a comment about how he had been thinking about their metaphorical gay relationship, therefore he must want it, or he'd receive yet another comment about his height.

Stupid bloody Holmes' and their genetic giant height.

He's average, okay? There is nothing wrong with being five foot six and a half.

Well, unless you have a gigantic six foot something best friend/roommate who constantly riots around London with you following like a puppy dog, and that you look like the size of a puppy dog compared to him.

"John, did you put the chicken in the oven like I asked you too?" said-gigantic-six-foot-something-best-friend says suddenly, hands placed on his chin in thought - John thinks worry but you can't be too sure about Sherlock; he could be thinking about a completely different thing then the question he asked, and you wouldn't know.

He's just that good.

Annoying git.

"I did," replies John quickly, before Sherlock further deduces that he almost dropped it on the floor (the Holmes' visiting probably could have known just by the variation of colour of the chicken or something silly like that, John assumes) and complains about it. "I don't see why you are panicking so much, Sherlock. I've already met Mycroft anyway."

Sherlock huffs a laugh at him. What's so funny? "Mycroft's not the problem."

"Then who is?"

"My sister. Hawthorne."

John feels his mouth pop open with surprise, though he's not sure on which bit he's actually surprised; that Sherlock actually has a sister, that's_ living_ and_ breathing_ and _coming_ to 221B Baker Street tonight to meet him personally, or the fact that her name is Hawthorne. _  
_

Well, Mycroft and Sherlock. He didn't really expect anything normal, to be honest.

"Your parents named her Hawthorne?" John asks. Perhaps the surprise was a mixture of the two reasons, though mainly the second one. _Hawthorne?_

Sherlock rolls his eyes, again. He always tends to do that when John expresses a normal human reaction to something that is not in the norm. "Yes, Hawthorne, John. Just like your sister's called Harriet, mine is called Hawthorne. I know, terrible name. My mother had a thing for old American novelists at the time. Shame, she could have picked something much better."

John places the paper, rolled up, down on the kitchen table on his way to check the chicken. "Fair enough. At least it's not common." Well, he's never met a Hawthorne before._ Hawthorne? _

He's never going to get over this, ever.

"So," John casually says, as Sherlock settles by his laptop, probably looking up a case. "Is she older or younger?"

"Younger," Sherlock replies absent-mindedly back. "By 12 years."

"12 years?"

"As you can tell, she was not planned. Deduced that at about five."

"What, she did?"

"Yes, John, she did. Surprised?"

"Amazed."

Sherlock smirked a little. "We all have the power of observation. You-"

"-'see but do not observe', Sherlock, I know. The amount of times you say it in a day-"

"-I wouldn't have to say it if you observed stuff proper, and not waste your mind space with useless trivia-"

"-the moon orbits the Earth! How does one not know that-"

"-like I said-"

"-your mind place, yes, I know. But it's the solar system-"

"-and if the Earth went around the moon, it would not make the slightest bit of difference. We have been over this, John-"

"-I know, numerical amount of times-"

The doorbell interrupts and John is quite pleased of the fact; he could see that argument carrying on and on and on until John had finally given up.

He's just as stubborn as his friend is. That's a good and bad thing, sometimes.

Sherlock runs a nervous hand through his hair as he stands to go get the door, but John stops him when he hears Mrs Hudson's footsteps moving to answer it.

About thirty seconds later, a girl of a height about five foot ten appears in the doorway. John notices her eyes are the same colour as Sherlock's, her hair just as curly as his, however it has been tamed into a clip placed precariously at the back of her head, a lighter brown compared to the brown-almost-black of Sherlock's.

Hawthorne.

"Sherlock!" her voice is surprising normal; not as formal sounding as Sherlock's or Mycroft's. John is glad of this. "How have you been? Wait, no point answering that. Getting the right amount of sleep, judging on the almost gone bags under your eyes. You've also put on eight and a half pounds since last I saw you. Must be John fattening you up - John Watson, yes?"

He is shocked when he is pulled into a hug. "Hi?"

"Oh, it's lovely to meet you," Hawthorne says, smiling brightly. "Sherlock never really had friends growing up, unless you count imaginary ones." She takes a step back, small, pale hands still resting on his shoulders. "You're so good to him, even after the trouble in the war. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John opens his mouth to talk, but he is beat to it by Sherlock. "Afghanistan. He was a-"

"-Doctor. Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Mycroft told me that bit, you know, about the captain and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I deduced the rest," she replies, and sits down in a chair with swift ease.

It isn't until then that John realises what she is actually wearing; a pair of dark blue, high waisted skinny jeans, and a jumper with the words 'Observe' written on it, in bold white while the jumper is black. Normal, not posh or formal, which is what he'd expect Sherlock and Mycroft to wear.

Yet she is just as clever as them.

"Would you like some tea?" John asks politely.

Hawthorne nods. "Oh, yes, please, tea would be lovely. Just how you have it, Doctor Watson. No sugar, and a dash of milk."

John doesn't even waste his time asking how she knows that.

She has manners. She hugs and actually initiates human contact. Dresses normally. The only really similarties between her and Sherlock are their abrupt manner of producing their deductions and their dashing eye colour. It is weird to see an almost female mix of both Sherlock and Mycroft; Mycroft's manners, Sherlock's way of abrupt deductions, his eye colour, Mycroft's hair colour.

It was what John expected her to look like.

However, not to act like.

"So, Sherlock, how have you been?" he hears Hawthorne say, obviously making conversation. "You've found yourself a friend, I see."

John hears the eye roll Sherlock gives. "I've been well, Hawthorne. However, I do not make friends, as you so eloquently put it, I'm a-"

"-'high functioning sociopath'. I know, Sherlock."

There is a moment of silence before John hears Hawthorne's voice again.

"He's nice, John. I see why you keep him around."

He hears Sherlock sigh. "He is nice. And a good doctor too. Though don't tell him that because it'll go to his head."

"What, like complements about your deducing skills goes to yours?"

"No."

"That means yes, then."

John walks back in and is greeted with the sight of Sherlock sat down with his head on his sister's lap, while she strokes his hair. He hands her tea to her, and sits down in his chair.

"So," Hawthorne says after a while. "How have the cases been going? Last time I read your blog, Doctor Watson, was The Adventures of the Speckled Band. Inventive name, too."

Sherlock sighs heavily again. "I have not had one over a five in a week. It is highly upsetting."

"Aw, poor baby," Hawthorne pets at his hair with obvious sarcasm. "Suck it up, Sherlock. And what time is Mycroft getting here? I want to catch up with him, as well."

"Why would you want to catch up with Mycroft for? He's the enemy," replies Sherlock as he sits up to drink the cup of tea John had brought out for him.

John is overwhelmed with just how normal this Holmes' sibling is; she really is down to earth.

Maybe he should ask if she knows about the solar system...maybe not...it's not worth the hassle, especially when that hassle will come from Sherlock Holmes, who knows where he keeps all his jumpers - his favourite dark grey one had already been set on fire. John had come back from the shop, and there was Sherlock, with his goggles on, holding a Bunsen Burner under his dark grey jumper, which was cracking and sizzling away. John was not happy, to say the least, and Sherlock had given him a Sherlock-version of the puppy eyes.

Hawthorne rolls her eyes at her brother. "He's not an enemy, Sherlock, this is not melodrama. If it was, what would you be? The heroine or the hero?"

"The hero, obviously," Sherlock grits out.

John flickers his eyes between the two siblings. "You could be heroine, what with all the dramatics."

Hawthorne laughs at John while Sherlock pulls his bitchface and continues to drink his tea.

"You've learnt how to deal with him," Hawthorne observes. "And you're loyal, obviously, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"I've faced a war," John argues. "I think I can face a Holmes."

"Can you face three, at the same time?" She asks quickly, sipping at her nearly empty tea.

That's a good question - can he? Sherlock's bad enough, and add Mycroft to that equation and well, its bad. What about adding a third, who seems to be exactly the same as them?

Bugger.

Hawthorne chuckles. "Maybe you should have thought about asking for a dinner with all of us."

"You don't seem to be that bad," John replies.

Sherlock huffs, and earns a hit in the arm for his effort.

"I'm not that bad, I know. That's probably because I've actually had human contact, and communicated with actual human beings, however dull they might be."

"Well, you used to pawn the attention our uncle would give you," Sherlock snaps. "And he was a dull creature."

"That's because he used to feed me chocolates, and I have a weakness for chocolate," Hawthorne replies, ignoring the bite in her brother's words, obviously used to it. "And even though he could not hold any type of conversation with me, he'd used to hug me and make me feel better. Something that you and Mycroft never used to do."

John tuts. "That I believe. When is that other sibling of yours getting here-"

The door bell rings.

It's like they know they're being talked about.

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps are heard again as she gets up to answer the door. The sight of Mycroft Holmes fills his vision thirty seconds later, and he watches as Hawthorne embraces her other brother in a bear hug. He barely hugs her back, but he has a little smile on his face, and so Hawthorne counts it as a win.

"Mycroft, brother," she says, "It's been too long. What on Earth have you being doing with yourself? You've lost almost a stone since last we met."

"Dieting," Sherlock fills in. "Just the other day we had a phone call while he was exercising and eating salad at the same time."

"Mycroft, that's dangerous and you know it," Hawthorne says, "And you don't need to diet, dear brother, you look fine."

"No he doesn't," Sherlock inputs.

"Well, he doesn't," She agrees, "But you can barely tell in a suit like this. I like it." She looks him up and down, and nods. "Sit. John will make you a cup of tea, right, John?"

John salutes, obviously he's become a slave to every one of the Holmes siblings.

"You know how I like it, Doctor Watson," Mycroft's voice is heard from the kitchen.

"So, Mycroft, how are you?" Hawthorne asks. "Not busying yourself too much with work."

Sherlock huffs. "He all but hefts it off to me. Do you know that he does not deduce as often?"

"Are you being serious?" Hawthorne asks, and John pops his head round to see her face is just as shocked as her voice sounded. Her eyes wide, her mouth open in an 'o' as she sits on the sofa with Mycroft opposite in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock is looking mildly bored and looking out the window at London, not really caring about what his siblings are talking about.

Hawthorne recovers. "I deduce as often as I can. Patients at the hospital, there are always good. Just the other day I told a lady who had just come out of having heart surgery that her husband was having an affair. I guess the timing wasn't all that great."

"Well, that's obviously a thing with all you Holmes, then. Your bloody timing."

John thinks back to the case they had last; Sherlock had deduced something in his head and had blurted it out in front of a old lady who's husband had just been murdered - he had deduced that her husband had been having an affair with the old lady's best friend, and the old lady did not look to happy with Sherlock after he had said that.

John thought it was funny. Sherlock, after getting hit repeatedly with an umbrella, did not.

"Our timing is not that bad, John," Sherlock answers, but John knows he knows it's true, but John doesn't say anything and sits down next to Hawthorne on the sofa as Sherlock is now occupying his chair.

"When is dinner going to be served, John?" Sherlock asks again. "I'm hungry."

John splutters. "You're hungry? Can I have someone record that and mark this day on the calander as the day that Sherlock Holmes admitted to feeling something human?"

"That's a little dramatic, John."

"Well, I guess I'm like you then, in that area."

"I'm not dramatic."

"Yes, you are, Sherlock. Way too dramatic, that's why you'd be the woman in our metaphorical gay relationship."

"Are we still arguing about that? Because I do believe I won that arguement a moment ago-"

Mycroft interrupts. "Brother, please, do not make this dinner a bad one-"

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft. You look more out of place then John's stupid vase that he insists of keeping-"

"It was my mother's-"

"It's ugly-"

"It was her mother's! It has a legacy-"

"Sherlock, Doctor Watson, please-"

"Mycroft, butt out-"

"Yeah, Mycroft, John has spoken-"

"GUYS!"

They all turn to see that Hawthorne is in doorway between the kitchen and the living room and is holding the tray the meat had been cooked on.

"Are you just about done? Dinner is finished and Mrs. Hudson has been helping me dish it out," she announces, before flouncing back to the kitchen to finish what she started.

John follows quickly before he can get into another argument with both of the Holmes brothers, and he sees Sherlock do the same thing.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner? There's enough here," Hawthorne offers, but Mrs. Hudson declines.

"No thank you, dear. I'm heading round Julie's house for dinner," Mrs. Hudson replies. "Have fun with this lot."

"I think I need luck more than anything," Hawthorne mutters, and Mrs. Hudson pats her arm, walking past and chuckling on her way out.

"Guys, sit, please."

They all sit and dig in. John thinks its surreal to see the three Holmes siblings in silence, actually eating a meal, as he's never really seen Mycroft eat, and he's seen Sherlock eat now again, when he actually remembers that his body needs it.

"So, John, how's your job? Working at a hostpital, I'm guessing?" Hawthorne asks.

John nods, finishing his mouthful. "Yeah. It's nice to work there, rather than following your brother around everywhere."

"You love it really, John," Sherlock replies, looking firmly at his friend. "Don't pretend you don't."

"Mycroft told me about you missing the war," Hawthorne says. "Are you one of those people who like danger?"

"I love it, to be honest," John answers. "What's life without a little thrill?"

"Well, Mummy never really let us do much as children," Hawthorne replies thoughtfully. "Though I do remember the time that I jumped out of the tree and you both had to try and catch me. It was highly amusing."

"She wanted to test the force of gravity and how it balances with other forces around her," Sherlock adds, rolling his eyes. "She was eight at the time, and as small as a halfling."

"All right, Gandalf," John mutters and Hawthorne splutters on her food as Sherlock sends a glare at the doctor. "What? It needed to be said."

"No, it did not," Sherlock replies.

"Well, do you also remember the time Sherlock came back drunk, because he wanted to learn his alcohol intolerance?" Mycroft asks, briefly placing his knife and fork down for a sip of his water.

Hawthorne laughs and claps her free hand on her brother's back, as Sherlock all but blushes. "That was one funny time, brother. Mummy had all but left you in the living room with a bucket by your head, and if I remember correctly, you had used it frequently during the night."

"Haha," Sherlock says sarcastically. "You laugh now. But do you not remember the time when you were three and you pulled the wig of old Uncle Benedick's head and threw it into the fire, smoking off Mycroft's eyebrows as he was roasting a marshmallow on there?"

"That was hilarious," Hawthorne replies, and laughs at the expression on Mycroft's face.

"What happened after that?" John asks.

"Mycroft got picked on at school for having no eyebrows and Mummy had to draw them on," Hawthorne supplies. "Ah, they were some good times."

"What about the time Father thought that Mycroft had burned his favourite shirt when it was actually you?" Sherlock says, and chuckles slightly. "The way Mycroft was absolutely adamant that it wasn't him."

"That was you?" Mycroft glares at his sister.

"Yes, but it was better if I blamed it on you because that was the same month I dye the dog's fur red."

John chuckles at that, almost choking on his carrot. "Why red?"

"She wanted to see whether the dog would see the difference in colour," Sherlock supplies.

"It wasn't until afterwards that I found out dogs only see black and white anyway," Hawthorne laughs. "Mummy grounded me for a week, before she gave up as I knew all the way to get out of the house and she couldn't stop me. Hey, Sherlock, remember that time..."

And they carry on discussing times in the past, and John feels as if he knows a lot more than he did when he woke up; Sherlock was actually a rebellious child, and that he should never ask for a dinner with the Holmes' again.

Although, he'll probably meet up with Hawthorne again.

Just to get some lovely pictures of Sherlock's little clown outfit from a Halloween party once.

Oh, how John loves this family reunion.

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**Hope it was okay! I'm not particucarlly sure that dogs can only see black and white, so, please correct me if I'm wrong! Thanks! :D**


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